


Speak

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Beleg and Fingon try to define their relationship.





	Speak

In a small, dimly lit room in a log cabin atop a hill, a pair of hunters were relaxing after a day of – what else – hunting. There was a small terrier traversing the space, and an owl with a missing eye perched on the curtain rod. One held a mug of cider, warmed slightly, with a distinct scent of brandy wafting from it. The other, just the brandy. 

Neither was prone to speaking much in the evening. There seemed to be some uncertainty about the topics which could be discussed or whether the other even wanted to talk at all, and if it did occur, if something might be said to upset the other. For two as fearless as they, there was overwhelming trepidation over the simple idea of speaking.

There were several chairs and a small footstool, but only one sofa. This they shared, with one facing the other and each with their back against an arm. Sometimes they read or perhaps one would write a letter to someone, or toss the rope toy to the terrier to fetch. Other times, they might both just sit in peaceful, pleasant silence, with occasional exchanged glances or smiles. 

Once, Beleg even winked at Fingon. 

Fingon said nothing, but blushed with a racing heart the entire night.

This evening, Beleg held his mug and looked into it thoughtfully. Fingon had taken up the ‘outside’ position, so that his legs were closer to the edge of the couch, and consequently he was the one that the dog nosed at when he wanted his rope thrown across the room. Beleg was on the inside, and had the advantage of being able to lean his side against the back of the sofa.

When the dog gave up on the idea that Fingon would hold onto the toy for him and raced to the corner with it to gnaw upon, Fingon slid down further so that his head was propped up only by the arm of the sofa and his feet were just barely nudging Beleg’s shoulder. “My mother wrote to me,” he stated abruptly.  
There was more to it than that. “What news did she share?” asked Beleg.

Fingon lowered his arm to set the brandy on the floor, and thought better of it as the dog looked up. “She is wondering what I am up to.”

“Mothers do that, or so I have heard.” Beleg yawned a little loudly. “Did you write back?”

“Not yet.” Fingon sat up and drained his glass dry so that he could discard it for now on the floor. Before he settled down again, he removed a clasp from his hair, which caused a mass of hair to cascade down. He gathered it up and used the long, loose locks as extra cushion for his head against the arm of the sofa. “I was not sure what you wanted me to say.”

Beleg yawned again, but was determined not to drift off to sleep. Not with a warm mug of cider and a question that had been burning in his mind suddenly open for debate. “What were you thinking of telling her?”

Fingon folded his hands and looked at the ceiling. “What would you say?”

“Well…” Beleg abandoned his drink on the side table and reached for Fingon’s feet with his nearest hand. As he massaged tired toes, he said, “I would begin with, Dear Lady Anairë, You do not know me but I am the man who is living with your son.”

“The man who is living with me.” Fingon blew a puff of air from between his lips. “Accurate,” he commended.

“I suppose you should confirm my title, though,” prodded Beleg. “Just to make it easier on your mother.”

Fingon began to play with the cording of his shirt, and in time they loosened so that it was slightly open. “I fear we could keep each other at this all night.”

“Doubtful. I am going to fall asleep right on this couch, within the hour.”

The terrier dragged his toy back to his two-legged companions (he often felt sorry that they lacked half their legs, because it meant they could not romp like he did) and flopped beside the sofa for a nap. “Out of morbid curiosity, what did you call Túrin?”

Beleg snorted. “Túrin,” he answered flatly.

“Ah.”

“What did you call Maedhros?” asked Beleg.

“Maitimo, Russandol. Also lover, dear, and darling, until it became asshole, fucker, and son-of-a-bitch.”

Beleg rubbed his beard. “I think those last two might be a little harsh, but if you go for calling me asshole, maybe you should explain to your mother it is a private endearment before you tell her the word.”

Fingon pulled himself up a bit, and Beleg let go of his feet. “I would never call you that.”

“Good. In fact, I think I hate them all, especially Russandol.”

“That makes two of us,” replied Fingon. He rubbed his eyes. “Man I am living with is the winning option thus far.”

“Perhaps we can start a new trend with it.” Beleg closed his eyes. “You want me to stop skirting the issue and be honest?”

“Please. I mean…” Fingon made the same little puff of air noise as he had earlier. “I am lost for the word. Titles have meanings that cling to them. I am unable to describe what we are with a single word.”

Another yawn escaped Beleg. “Why are we here?” he asked.

“Sorry, what?”

“Let me rephrase that. Why did we decide to take up the offer to come live here while the other three sort things out? Why solitude? Why this lonely cottage, with only us and a few animals for company?”

“Because you kissed me in Tirion.” Fingon blushed, yet pretended not to notice.

“Is that all?” 

“Why are you here, with me, then?” asked Fingon. “What is your answer to your riddle?”

“Because I kissed you in Tirion,” repeated Beleg. 

Fingon snorted.

“Because I love you.”

Fingon swallowed hard.

Beleg waited and then said, “You are not required to say it back. I know you were hoping for something more with Glorfindel and Erestor. I have very little hope to see Túrin again, but I still hold onto that hope. I think for you, with the return of Faelion, whatever hope you had is gone now, and you do not want me to think you are settling for me. I think we both know we are settling for each other; that said, I know that I would still love you if someone else came along for either or both of us.”

Immediately, Fingon stood up and walked the length of the room to a bookcase that was chest high. He folded his arms on the top, back to the rest of the rom, and said nothing.

Beleg left Fingon alone for a time. He cleaned up the glasses from their beverages and let the terrier jump on his lap for a few minutes. When the dog excused himself, Beleg approached Fingon. “If I made you uncomfortable, I am sorry.”

“I was just not expecting that.” Fingon was solemn, his voice soft. “I have heard those words from so few people in my life.”

“Surely, your parents have said it before, at the very least.”

“My mother does not even sign her letters that way,” answered Fingon. “I left to train when I was quite young; I returned only briefly, and I was more than an adult. Yes, they said it, but it was infrequent, and the criticism was what I heard over the praise and love. It was hard to listen to my siblings being adored, and to feel like a distant relative at times.”

“Alright. What about Maedhros?”

“Have you met Maedhros?” asked Fingon dryly.

“I get the feeling that would be a bad idea. Mostly for him,” Beleg decided.

Fingon flinched when Beleg’s hand touched a shoulder bared from the slipped shirt, but he did not push him away. “His endearments were rough or vulgar, and now I know when they did contain the word love, they did not contain love itself.”

“I am sorry.” Beleg squeezed Fingon’s shoulder and then moved away. “Túrin never really said anything, either.” He sucked in a breath as memories flooded over him, threatening to drown his senses. “But I never said it to him. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would have made a difference.”

With a tired sigh, Fingon turned and beckoned Beleg to him. The shorter elf bowed his head, but stepped closer, into Fingon’s open arms. “It shocked me, that is all. It is not unwelcome. Despite the way I act at times, I have so desired to be loved. It has been hard, to accept that the most important thing in my former life was a lie. I want to be in love, badly, I want to succumb to that feeling again, but I guard my heart. I have built barriers that even I feel are impossible to break.”

“You and I are not so different,” suggested Beleg. “By appearance, mighty in strength. Our spirits, though, have been tortured, broken, and the pieces that are left are fragile. We fear even to touch them, for we fear they will crumble before they can be mended.”

Fingon wrapped his arms around Beleg even tighter. The words were muffled into auburn hair, but Beleg heard them all the same. “My head is cautious, but my heart is yearning for you, and my soul is at once joyful and terrified.”


End file.
